Acts and Absolution
by Raven Alma
Summary: The Great Cross-Continental War has finally ended, after 8 grueling years. Now, struggling in poverty, Dr. W. V. Mendoza works to be able to support his family of 4. But with the breath of the Whistle Gang behind him, Mendoza must decide and decide quickly before his family is taken away. What will he do to protect his family? AU. Overlord/ Bloodborne
1. Over the Moon

**CHAPTER 1**

* * *

Dr. W.V. Mendoza sat in the middle of the living room across from the fireplace examining the documents in front of him: shuffling, writing notes, stamping papers, and calculating costs. He pulled back his hair and sunk down into the creaky wooden chair. He pinched his brows and cracked his fingers individually.

The dying fire flickered rapidly—crackling—as its dull light warmed one side of his face. The windows were boarded up patchily as some moonlight showered through the open spaces, hitting the ground, while the leaves and the black soot wandered into the house and landed where they pleased. T

he pipes creaked as what little water ran through them: carrying all the muck and dirt to be later used; the plasters and walls were stripped, leaving only the empty spaces between each pillar holding up the two floors of the house; broken planks, shattered glass, and random tools littered the ground, sometimes even joining the gray leaves and the black soot.

Mendoza closed his eyes and felt the thumping in his ear: it grew; it got louder and louder and louder until with a final stop, he opened his bloodshot eyes and ran to the cabinet under the sink.

He pulled out a key and opened the safe; he grabbed a random bottle and chugged it down: coughing and breathing haggardly. His stomach churned as he got up to the sink and vomited. He held on to the ledge but couldn't. His muscles wouldn't give him the strength as all his energy dwindled and his body slowly slipped to the floor. Liquid from the bottle ran down the side of his mouth as he shakily searched his coat and pulled out a bottle of pills. He opened the cap and poured out what was left in there, grabbed the bottle and swilled it down.

His blood vessels dilated as did his eyes and his heartbeat returned to normal. Around the corner of the kitchen, someone peeked out and said "Daddy . . ." in a weak and worried voice. Mendoza squinted his eyes and realized who it was—Susie. He got up lethargically as his body refused to listen to his commands.

He crouched and said, "What is it, sweetheart?"

His voice, though heavy and gruff, carried a warm and loving affection. Susie looked at her father and smelled the pungency of alcohol. Her face contorted as she covered her nose with her teddy bear.

Mendoza softened his expression and put his hand gently on her shoulder. He opened his mouth but closed it and instead patted her and stood up.

"Come on, let's go back up." She shook her head and hugged her teddy bear tighter.

Mendoza bent down, kissed her on the head, and went rummaging through his library to see if he could find her a book. After a minute of searching, he smiled and pulled it out.

Susie looked up at her father, the grime melted into his features, depreciating his high cheekbones and sharp jaw—a man who was rugged yet not bad on the eyes.

He reached out his hand and little Susie stared with an apprehensive, sharp look. She did not want to hold his rough hands, not because she did not love her father: she did; she very much loved her father, but fear had gotten a hold of her and disallowed her from touching the one person she could rely on the most. But Mendoza plopped on the floor with a giant smile spread across his face, revealing stress lines crowded around his eyes. He opened the book and started reading.

"Little Alfred looked up at the sky. He was not allowed to explore outside his house because he was not old enough, but this one night, the moon was so big and beautiful he had to reach it. So, he crawled through the window and jumped down. He ran into the forests and up climbed the highest mountain. He had to hurry because the moon was going away. He reached all the way to the top of the mountain and stretched out his hand like this to touch it but the moon was too far away. He knew he had to jump, and jump he did, he flew through the sky and reached the moon..."

Mendoza turned to his daughter who quietly sat next to him. She leaned her head against his shoulder and fell asleep. Mendoza smiled and gently picked her up and carried her upstairs to where his other children were at. He walked in and pressed his finger against his mouth. The children understood and went to bed.

The room had 4 beds spread out with the windows securely placed and latched closed. Old, decrepit toys covered the ground; horses, dolls, knights, and dragons were by their bedside. Mendoza tucked Susie in and gave her another kiss. "Good night, Susie" he whispered.

He turned to the rest and gave them all a kiss on the forehead.

"Good night, Donovan. Good night, Erick. Good night, Karen."

And they said goodnight back to him.

Then someone knocked downstairs.

The kids propped up, but Mendoza cautioned them not make a sound. He grabbed the candle and snuffed it out with a pinch of his fingers.

Another knock, this time it was impatient, Mendoza hurried downstairs and looked through the crystal hole in the door. He breathed a controlled sigh and blessed himself.

He opened the door and a figure busted through, swinging the door wide open from and walked inside. Its boots crunched against the shattered glass as with each step the floor creaked. Mendoza closed the door and observed the strange figure. It wore a heavy gray trench coat and a large brimmed hat that covered his face.

The figure looked around and studied the room and slowly paced through the hall. Pictures were placed face down. He picked one up and examined it.

"Beautiful family."

Mendoza's heart burned.

"They take after their mother." His tone was low and cautious.

The figure set down the framed picture and walked about looking down the decrepit tapestry and murky dust.

He pulled out a cigar and a lighter. He turned and pointed at it, "You don't mind if I smoke do you?" Though it was posed as a question it was authoritative. Mendoza lowered his eyes as to not meet his.

"Go ahead."

Mendoza stole a glance at him as he tensed his body.

"Please have a seat," The figure bared his pristine teeth at Mendoza who pointed at the wooden chair across from the fireplace. He took a puff of his cigar and blew out smoke through his mouth.

Mendoza sat down as the figure continued to pace. He picked up the pack of documents left on the table and sifted through them with a discerning eye.

"This won't do at all." The figure inhaled the rest of the cigar and threw it on the ground and stomped on it.

Mendoza furrowed his brows and hung his head. He placed his hands on his knees and squeezed them. He stayed silent.

The figure dropped the pile on the table and welcomed himself near the fire. He took off his hat. He had a large crusty forehead with sharp brown eyes. His demeanor was crude which showed in his stride and manners. He was not a nice man

"It's freezin' out there, I see you have some boards up." He took off his gloves and clasped them against each other; rubbing them and spreading them forth close to the weak fire.

Mendoza took a silent breath as he looked up at him. _P_ _rick_ , he thought. Mendoza made sure that his thoughts didn't translate to his face and kept it straight.

"How's little Susie, she doin' alright? After that incident, normally, people would not be well."

Mendoza clenched his fists. "She's doing fine." His voiced strained. The man studied him for a moment and continued looking at the fire.

"You know, recently the guys and I have talked this over, I for one am against it. But we all gotta do what we all gotta do."

Mendoza widened his eyes. He knew this would happen sooner or later, but he never hoped they might come this quickly.

"I don't have it this month Charles. Give me one more week—two weeks." He pleaded.

Charles shook his head pityingly, "We gave you enough time Will, but you borrowed the money and we want it back. Hey, I understand you, but rules are rules. You can't go ahead and break them."

"No-please, Charles don't do this—don't take them away!" He almost grabbed Charles by the collar of his white shirt and beat him. But he stopped midway when he stood up.

"Will, you have to understand, if the decision were up to me, and I mean only me, I wouldn't do this to you. I know you love your family."

 _And that's why you threaten me you son of a—_

"But there's a way."

Charles smiled mischievously and laughed.

Terror grew on Mendoza's face as he knew exactly what he was thinking. He closed his eyes and braced himself.

"Fine, call them."

Charles smirked and whistled a high pitch call. Droves of guys stormed in and grabbed Mendoza by the collar; they dragged him outside where the rest of the gang proceeded to punch, kick, and bat him with a pipe. Mendoza took hit after hit without crying or shouting for help and in the end, his body was left bruised, weak, and bloodied.

The gang walked off with the satisfaction of another hunt. Charles stopped and lighted another cigar. There was a hint of remorse in his eyes, but mostly it was pity.

"One week. That's all you have."

Mendoza laid there on the ground and as they left, the black winter came down on him gently. He covered his face and whimpered quietly

* * *

 **Author's Notes: Hi, my names Raven Alma. I was looking for a change of pace from my other series and I wrote this Really, what I had in mind is a combination of a few games put into the premise of Overlord, with that just being a backdrop and way into the future. Though it's a mash of a lot of things mixed to make something heavily different, I want to continue some of the themes present in the games I've played and the stories I've read using their elements. The world of Overlord and Bloodborne mashed with themes of the Last of Us is really my focal point.**

 **Thank you for reading.**


	2. A Duty and More

**CHAPTER 2**

* * *

The fire died as it once tremendous force turned to a soft pygmy. Its heat dwindled and now the warmth from the room dissipated. The rough coldness from the outside scratched against the house and its chill set it. Mendoza sat in his chair; his eyes were blurred while his finger tapped against his leg—slow and rhythmic. After some time, Mendoza perked up; finally noticing the dead warmth, he got up and groaned as he limped. With a gesture of this hand, he rekindled the flame. He stood there, leaning against the wall as the pain shot through his ribs. He haggardly breathed with controlled precision: each action caused an acute, prickling stab. He limped toward the counter in the kitchen and pulled out a stool; his arm stretched to grab onto the ledge.

He looked at the cracked watch on his wrist and proceeded to pull out a bottle of pills. He took two and drank a glass of water. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. The thumping began; the drumming began. He eyes shot wide open. He staggered to the sink; cupping his mouth and vomiting. Mendoza grabbed his silver necklace. He did not open the safe this time.

As he let go of the ledge, Mendoza wiped his face. He relaxed as he continued to fiddle with the necklace. He went through the back door of the house and trudged through the black wintery ashes. He covered his face with his arm as he shakily took his keys and opened the door to the shack. Mendoza closed the door behind him as he cast a sign to turn on the candles by the door. He picked one up and walked further into the clinical stench. At the end was all his medical equipment: tweezers, medicinal herbs, stethoscope, vials, and various other instruments. Blue vials hanged on the wall; accompanied with others of its kind. Mendoza pressed a small button. All the equipment in front of him retracted into the walls. The shack metamorphized into a giant library crossed over with a lab. These were relics from another time. He traced his fingers trying to find the exact text he needed—Vaccinations. He flipped through the pages and stopped on one. At the top right corner read the words: Pneumonia.

"An infection that inflames the alveoli…signs and symptoms: chest pain, difficulty breathing, etc.…"

Under the desk he sat, he pulled out an empty vial and then began concocting a prototype vaccination. In the end, it turned blue like the rest of the hanging vials. He got out a marker and tape and wrote on it. Then he placed it with the rest of the vials.

He grabbed a small bottle of a purple liquid and poured it over his hands and face to clean off all the dirt and grime. He grabbed a darker purple and lathered it over his face and ribs. Somewhat feeling better, Mendoza softly pressed his hands over them. He grimaced. _A few at least._

He stood up and walked back to the house. He opened the door and found Donovan reading by the kitchen. He was a tall and slender young man with tanned skin. His black hair curled weakly while his curious eyes examined the pages before him. Mendoza observed him for a bit before sitting down near the fireplace. The light showed the bags under his eyes and the stress that lined across the forehead.

Donovan stole a glance at his father and furrowed his brows. "Dad," he said.

Mendoza turned his head. "Yes, Donovan?" He said affectionately.

Donovan bit his lip at the sound of his father's voice. To him, his father was the most passionate man he knew. To see him hurt yet still answer him with such warmth and love, pained Donovan. He heard the men—saw them beat his father! He wanted to run out that night and punch and kick, hurt every man who touched his dad. Held himself. He would have worsened the situation. Instead, he hummed a song to Susie and Erick: the same one their dad hummed every day: the same one his mom sang every night to them.

Donovan looked back dejectedly at his book. "Never mind dad."

"Alright, just make sure to rest when your head hurts."

"I know."

The two sat in silence. Donovan flipped page after page. While Mendoza rubbed his temples. Then, there was a knock. Mendoza turned to his and looked at him with intensity.

"Go to your room and lock the door."

Donovan jogged upstairs and locked the door. Mendoza patted his pants and got up to check who it was. He furrowed his brow. _Who's this?_ He opened the door and a man around his sixties, a long-lived man, looked at him with a hopeful expression for underneath he held a melancholic air. The old man had round features; was stout and short yet his build indicated he was a strong man. Behind him was a small vehicle. Mendoza looked him up and down and noticed a small emblem by the side of his black coat.

"Are you Dr. Mendoza?"

"Yes, that is who I am." Before the old man could say anything else, Mendoza stepped aside and stretched out his hand. The old gentleman nodded and walked inside. He sat by the counter with a jittering jaw. "Please sit by the fireplace." Said Mendoza. The old gentleman shook his head and said that he was fine. He looked at Mendoza and began.

"It's a bit cold down here."

Mendoza let out a low chuckle. "People from the north can't appreciate a little cold."

The old man coughed at the remark and let out a small laugh. Mendoza brewed up some tea with his sign and poured a cup for the gent.

"Thank you."

Mendoza sat down. "Long way off from the Aragon Plains."

The gent put down his cup of tea, not surprised, and looked at Mendoza straight in the eye. They were pigmented hazel green mired with an ambivalence towards dread and hopelessness.

"Yes, far off." His voice trailed off as he tried to recollect himself. "Dr. Mendoza, The Aragon Family realizes it is impertinent of us to come here and ask for your services and for them they will pay you exceedingly well."

"You wouldn't come out here if it was a simple cold."

"Ay, the eldest daughter, Miss Aralia, she has contracted a disease—"

"Please, relax. How long ago did she get the disease?" Mendoza leaned forward.

The gent gripped his cup. "She contracted it last night. It was just a fever at first but then she complains of a severe headache and she vomits and defecates herself this liquidize—it's just a mess Doctor." He spoke rapidly and incoherently.

Mendoza observed the old man, He's hands were shaking and his voice occasionally spiked.

What is her condition like? Anything noticeable."

"Yes, she's as pale like the moon! He fingers are as black as death!"

Mendoza sighed and lowered his head. The hope that was one the gent's face turned neutral then to terror.

"No, Doctor please you must understand, we are willing to pay you for your services."

Mendoza shook his head.

"I can go examine her myself, but from your description, I'm afraid there isn't much I can do but to lessen her pain."

The gent leaned back. "No, this can't be. I raised her since she was just a babe! How can she? How can she go so soon?"

Mendoza kept his head hung.

The gent sobbed under his breath. Mendoza looked on sympathetically.

"You truly can't save her? I'm sure they are willing to do anything…." The gent saw Mendoza's face, his intense eyes told him everything. They screamed, "I'm sorry." The gent could not fault the man for being unable to do anything. This is what life is.

Mendoza, unable to stay quiet anymore. "I can come and look at her. But if it's what I have in mind, then I can only hope my help will be of service."

The gent looked at him with uplifting eyes, "Could you possibly ease her pain?"

"If nothing else, I can at least soften it."

The gent went down on his knees. "Praise the almighty! Thank you, kind sir! Really, Thank you." Tears welled up in his eyes as he lowered himself to Mendoza.

He tapped the gents shoulder. "Please rise, I'm only doing my duty. But we must hurry now. Before the disease hurts her even more than it should."

He looked up at him, "Ay, I'll tell the driver to start the vehicle."

"I'll meet you outside."

Mendoza reached out his hand to shake the gents.

"How rude of me. I never gave you my name. I'm Vern Wimberly."

"Well sir, blame it on the circumstance. I'll meet you outside. I'll have to get everything prepared."

Vern went outside, and Mendoza hurried upstairs and opened the door to his children's bedroom. He looked at Donovan and walked up to him.

"I need you to look after the family alright? Remember the plan." He hugged every single one of them and turned to Donovan once more. "You remember where it is. Go get it." Donovan ran out of the room and came back with a small object wrapped in a black cloth. "Good, now carry it with you all the time. I'll be back by the next morning or the day after. I love you"

As Mendoza walked down the stairs he felt the grating pain of ribs prick his side. He held on to the rail as he slid down. He took out a single pill and swallowed it. He got back up and hurried to the shed. He gathered various herbs, bottles, and instruments, placed them neatly and accordingly in a bag. He looked at the assortment of blue vials and saw the name written boldly: **5% B.P.** Mendoza grabbed it and put it in his pocket along with another green vial. He locked the door to the shack and bolted to the vehicle: with his ribs bruising his sides.

The driver drove up the road and made a sharp turn. The rubber burned, and its smell drifted toward Mendoza's nose. He got in the car and the driver stomped on the pedal.

* * *

 **Author's Notes: This is the second chapter of this series! There isn't much to say at this point, but thank you for continuing to read. Please leave a comment/review and tell me what's on your mind.**


	3. Road

**CHAPTER 3**

* * *

Mendoza sat in the car looking outside the window. It was all new. It was all familiar. The meadow stretching far and wide, the sun peeking through the clouds, the long strips of a road: these and countless other details and its many iterations, he has seen before.

Mendoza looked onward as he felt a disconnect— a dissonance—as he could no longer appreciate nature. This scene that would have been breath taking for many others gave no rise for Mendoza. His eyes were flat, and his mind was absent.

"It's beautiful isn't it Doctor?"

Mendoza kept staring out into the distance.

"Yeah, it's beautiful."

Vern looked at Mendoza through the mirror and tried to surmise what he was thinking; however, no matter how much he tried, Vern couldn't get past the deliberateness etched into his manners, the consuming intensity in his eyes, and the integrity gripped in his words. From the moment they had met, Mendoza was not like any other man, nor doctor for that matter. He carried himself in a sheepish yet daring way: contradicting but it somehow didn't, as if it were natural. Vern swore that he was of a bad character the moment he opened the door, yet the subtle kindness and flow, still the deliberateness, in his movements said otherwise. Vern did not understand his character; however, he took solace in trying to decipher the enigma.

"How long have you been practicing?"

Mendoza slightly perked up. "About 25 years now."

"25 years now!" Vern repeated astonished. "If you aren't an old cracker in the box."

"I could say the same to you, Mr. Wimberly."

Vern laughed at the doctor's wit.

"Xavier, did you hear that?" He resounded jubilantly.

"I do have a pair of ears, Vernon."

Vern smacked the driver on the shoulder and joked. "Can't you calm down that tongue of yours? I am your senior. Please do have some respect."

"I give my respect to those who deserve it."

Mendoza looked at the driver; he wore a blue cap and militaristic outfit adorned with ribbons and medals. He had a unique accent. It was subtle, but Mendoza noticed it. The driver was taller than he was, though a bit leaner. His brow was forever creased; it gave him a serious air which added to his strong and rough aesthetic.

"Well, I'll be." Said Vern.

The occupants of the vehicle grew quiet. Mendoza turned to the window and became almost absent-minded. Mendoza squinted and looked like a man on the hunt.

"Stop the car!"

Vern turned. "What?"

"Stop the car," Mendoza commanded.

The driver stomped on the brakes and the car halted to a jerky stop. Mendoza grabbed his bag and darted out into the meadow. He trudged through the grass and there he was: a human being. His skin looked torn—bloodied and as if skinned alive. The stench was a horrid mixture of burned garbage and fresh blood that caused a wrenching squeal from a normal person.

Mendoza looked on. He dropped his bag and took out a mask and gloves. He looked around for a stick and picked up anything with some elasticity and strength. He lightly poked the body: no response. Mendoza turned the body over and began examining it. He frowned.

"No pulse…bloated torso…cracked fingernails—dirty…bruises… several cuts by the abdomen and under the jaw… grotesque skin, slick and warm."

He took out a light and opened the person's eye. It was foggy and dry. It shifted in place and rolled in the socket. Mendoza kept examining. He pressed certain areas and looked at him.

"What the hell happened with you?"

He blessed the body and closed the eyelids.

"Doctor, what seems to be the matter?" Vern walked up to Mendoza, who knelt by the body; covering it. When he stood up, Vern instantly looked away with a squeeze-nauseous expression.

Mendoza took off his gloves and mask and threw them near the body. He would have started a small fire, but this was a meadow. It would be difficult to put out if he did.

"What did he die of—a squabble?" asked Vern

Mendoza walked past him, "Most likely not, though there seem to be some signs of struggle, probably himself clawing at his own skin."

"Is it perhaps lunacy or disease?"

"Maybe. Some disease may have caused this. His bandages indicate attempts to treat him; however, as for his mental state, he seemed disturbed. I can't tell."

"By lord."

Vern couldn't stare at the body before a repulsion caused his breathe to quicken.

"Is Miss Aragon's condition like his?" pointed Mendoza.

"No, she, by comparison, looks underwhelming. What could have happened to that poor gent?"

Mendoza kept walking to the car alongside Vern.

"Make sure to have a specialized team to take care of this. I don't know who, or what killed that man."

They reached the car where the driver leaned against it. He Vern's grave face and asked, "What was it?" The driver guessed what could have been out there; however, he wanted to know.

"A poor dreg died." He said absently

The driver turned solemn, "You're leaving the body out there? That's stupid! Let's go bury him with some decency."

Mendoza opened the door to the car. "No, it's risky. No one should go near that without some proper equipment. I told Wimberly to set up a team when we arrive at the Aragon manor."

The driver's face was flushed: filled with confusion and hesitance. This hardly spooked the driver; however, the sheer disillusionment and futility ceased his spirits and took them hostage. After some thought, he let go of his grievances and remembered the important goal at this moment.

The three got into the car and drove up the winding road.

Mendoza wandered off in his mind, he clutched his necklace as an estrangement, a clinical eye gleaned through the small cracks in his disturbed soul. He was cold in the heart and in thought. He squeezed harder on his necklace as the car further drifted away from the carcass. He knew it was worthless to puzzle what had happened to the man; however, whether shaken by his doctorly duty, curiosity, or fear, there was a wariness over his face.

He closed his eyes and quickly opened them: again, his eyes weren't bloodshot.

It had been several hours since the trip had begun. Vern with every passing second looked more anxious while the driver tightened his grip on the steering wheel, pressing harder on the gas, hoping, pleading to the world that the vehicle may effortlessly glide atop the rode and reach the manor soon. The engine thundered; the wheels roared against the pavement as the gears screeched.

Mendoza rubbed his temples slightly. He controlled his breathing; slow and steady: as to not disturb; as to not notice; as to not feel; as to not think; as to not exist.

"We're here…and Doctor," The driver's voice was as deep as the ocean: as unnerved as it. Mendoza turned his head and looked at the driver through the window. He saw the same eyes he once used with his wife. "…please do what you can." Mendoza's stomach churned. He bit the inner side of his cheek and ripped control from his instincts. He simply nodded. "To my abilities. Nothing more." The driver nodded as he took off his hat and pressed it against his chest and returned it back. As the car entered the gate, as they drifted between the evanescent trees, as the car hugged the winding corners of the road, Mendoza's heart palpitated. He felt an unease from the city of trees watching over them. He felt bothered. Mendoza's eyes widened as they emerged and saw the manor propagated on its land. The towers grew from the live ground and soared above any other building in the vicinity. Two bells hanged at the very top where everyone could see them, where everyone could hear them. There were a vibrancy and a hollowness in the manor. An irreconcilable silence until the bell rang evening and its sound echoed through the world. It disturbed Mendoza looking up at the building. His sense of taste had dwindled and turned bland over the years, but as he looked at the manor he was taken into a stupor unlike the plains before. Mendoza was bothered. Mendoza felt his heart stutter.

The car stopped along the main entrance. He got out of the car anxiously as he examined the manor. The wrenching squeal traced into his ears as a dizziness overcame the doctor. He stood still as his eyes drifted upwards and the building seemed to bend over him. The stretched-out windows became thinner as the towers intersected in his eyes and covered the white sun. Mendoza blinked, and the twisting manor returned to its normal form. Small designs were sculpted onto the lineaments of the building; though the vestiges of a once-ornate artistry seemed vaguely there that were coalesced into something extraordinary. A quick slew of hurt pricked his side as the doctor pressed his hand against it. Vern stepped out of the car and fixed his coat, still bereft of warmth.

"Doctor, we must wait here for someone to fetch us. It is customary."

"Let's hope, it's quick then."

They waited. The driver lowered the window and smoked his cigar ponderously. Each puff meant the end to an old thought. As he frowned when he looked at the doctor and the butler waiting, a feeling of ire rose his face as it flushed slightly; giving his paleness a bit of color. He gripped the wheel.

Out from the door came a young woman, as she looked around quickly. She stared at Vern and hurried to him

"We've a visitor."

Vern raised his brows.

"From where, darling?"

"I don't know. She says she's from the workshop."

Vern's face puzzled at her response.

"Very well then. Doctor, please excuse this interruption. I will send someone else for you. Don't fret, I will quickly do what you have asked me."

Vern with a deep bow left Mendoza as he continued to stare at the building. He stood in his place holding his briefcase as the driver got out the car and sat on the hood. They waited.

* * *

 **Author's Notes: I want to thank you guys for your patience and especially for the review by An Indulgent Fellow. I appreciate your thoughts and don't worry about writer's block. I like to take my time with my chapters and until I'm satisfied with what I want to convey I rewrite from the start. I look forward to your comments and to anybody else who wishes to engage with my story. Reading comments and seeing what exactly causes my writing to tick or not allows me to evaluate my writing.**

* * *

This is the third chapter. I won't be writing notes often in the future but if you can keep reading I'll appreciate your support from the bottom of my heart. A cliche but one that I wholly agree with.


	4. The Fairy

**CHAPTER 4**

* * *

It had been some time since Vern left and Mendoza stood slightly hunched. He was a bit tired and hadn't slept well that previous night. He was well enough to move about slowly and think—as thinking was his primary task.

The pain returned, and Mendoza could no longer take any more pills. They would rob him of all physical sensations; it would heal him at an enhanced but natural rate, but it came at a cost.

The primary motive for coming here to treat the young girl was money; he needed it. He would asses her in person as hearing the problem would not bring an apt diagnosis. However, Mendoza had heard similar cases, some personal, that matched the description of what Vern gave to him; though in his gut he still needed to check her. There have been instances where someone thought to be dead was simply in a deep coma or a person that should have been resuscitated was, in fact, pushed further to death due to internal bleeding. He was aware of some situations where simply knowing was not enough and one had to be acutely aware of what is happening and what further complications may arise.

Mendoza stared at the door and, as if something bothered him, walked up the steps and barged in. His eyes wandered over the manor. It was symmetrical in design with suits of armors of another age lined up facing each other with two hands gripped against the hilt: the sword pointing to the ceiling. There were rows of paintings—some were beautiful pieces yet none he knew of—with not even one of the Aragon family. In the center was a staircase leading up to the second floor and two more on each side that spiraled up to the higher levels. Mendoza was not amazed by this nor did he care for the structural aspect of the building. It all felt heavy to him. His chest felt tight while his throat was taut. The sun hanged outside near its end and a harsh red light poured through the panel windows.

Mendoza bit his cheek as he felt the pain from his ribs. He looked around for a bit before a servant appeared from the second floor. She noticed him. Instead of being skeptical the maid came down the center stairs and bowed.

"Welcome, Dr. Mendoza, I'll lead you right away to Miss Aragon."

He thought it was strange that he was not going to see the master of the manor, however, he would save his thoughts for later.

"Lead the way."

The maid smiled.

As they traversed into the building, through the shifting hallways and spiraling floors, the manor devoured him. His gut wrenched with each step, yet he moved as he usually would except with a subtle lethargic jerkiness.

The maid gave him a small squinted look every now and then when they turned a corner. She was a tall woman who despite her age looked young—at least 20 years younger. Her hair was black and put up into a bun and her clothes were a rich blue color, light as the ocean. She had cat-like eyes and her steps fell silent while Mendoza's were heavy and brusque. She came to asses him as quickly a detective would and noticed a small curl around his lip that gave him a playful and mischievous look; though the softness around his eyes contradicted her initial impression of him.

Soon they arrived at the young miss's room. Just as she was about to open the door, she hesitated and then opened it.

"Ms. Aragon, the doctor's here." There was a subtle inflection in her voice, though she had a dutiful tone before it turned subtlety sweet and soft. Her movements became slower as she stepped inside.

"Elena…tell him to come in." It was too quiet to hear normally that Mendoza had to strain his ears to even catch a small portion of it. Though it was quiet it was resounding, cheerful in its own way.

There was a brief pause as Mendoza entered. The maid did not look at him and continued with setting up tea.

Elena turned to Mendoza and bowed.

"Please come in."

Mendoza entered, with his head hung, and saw Miss Aragon laid on her bed. She was thin and fragile, her skin white was as white as her bed sheets and her hair as blonde as marigold. Her eyes looked sunken and her veins were visible. She squinted at Mendoza as she tried to make him out.

She smiled.

Mendoza gulped at the faintest smile known to man. He didn't know what to make of that smile—whatever it was, it felt startlingly to see the girl smile like that.

Mendoza looked at her kindly but inside he felt as if he was looking at the victim of a deadly curse. He saw grave things before, but the absolute coldness in the room, the sensation of arctic weather, stunned him as her eyes crossed with his. Mendoza felt something intangible gripping his legs to the frozen floor. The maid moved normally but Mendoza was stuck. This was the work of a disease? He did not know. Of all the patients, common and rare, there was not even one where he felt as though the presence of someone would send him to the coldness of oblivion. This trial of saving her from the infliction felt insurmountable; not in the sense of any medical diagnosis and treatment but in the fantastical that all his years of training and expertise were beyond his scope. What could he do?

The little fairy in front of him waved her hand weakly. He moved to her side as if he was being called to her being. He looked into her eyes and they were icy blue. He looked down at her fingers and they were black as the feathers of a crow.

"Welcome, Dr. Mendoza. I am under your care." She giggled.

Mendoza, embarrassed at seeing her smile so up close, averted his eyes for a split second.

"Yes," he said to himself, "you're under my care."

Something lit up inside her and clapped her hands. "Oh, it's time for tea isn't it Elena?" She widened her eyes at the maid as a child would look at their parents expecting a gift.

"It will be ready soon, for now, rest."

Her eyes smiled.

"How lovely of you!" She looked back at the doctor. "Please, please, pray you will have some?"

Mendoza shook his head. She pouted slightly but her childish air came back to her after she sat up to receive her tea. Elena bowed and exited the room. There was silence as she sipped her tea.

Lightning whipped, and the clouds boomed of the incoming rain. The fairy bobbed her head side to side as she hummed a sweet melody. She quickly looked at him and with a childlike whimsicality, her brows rose.

"Pray, shall we chat? Shall we?"

Mendoza nodded.

"Call me Aralia. Everyone here is so stiff that I never hear anything besides Miss Aragon." She paused as a sudden coughing spree struck her. "Excuse me for my manners." She pointed towards a small cup and Mendoza handed it to her.

"Thank you…say what is your name?"

"Mendoza."

"Do you not like your first name?"

"It's just a name."

"But then I suppose your last name is just a name too."

He stared at her for a moment. "It's my surname from my first father. I never changed it."

She looked down embarrassed at her probing. "I am sorry-"

"Don't worry about it, alright?" He lowered his voice. "Just call me by that name.

With a surprised expression, she nodded.

They continued in silence for a bit then with a crack of thunder she spoke up.

"Even though I am slightly better at this hour, I suppose there isn't anything that can be done regarding my condition." Another coughing spree pronounced itself.

Mendoza thought what disease if there was one that matched the effects on the poor girl. He had asked Vern how she looked before but the description was tame. Since there wasn't any evidence here, at the manor, that showed what she "could" of looked like, Mendoza was at a loss. He had expected a slightly different disease as any number could cause paleness, diarrhea, etc., but this translucent-white complexion was almost unnatural that he couldn't fix his mind on a distinct disease or condition that matched her state.

"I can't certainly say at this moment," he paused "Tell me, how do you feel?"

As if stunned by the question or something about it, her eyes widened, and her fists clenched the sheets. She averted her eyes as she answered, "I feel okay…with the usual outburst but nothing more."

Mendoza wished he could hold her hand but as he didn't know what she had he was reluctant to do so. He lowered his eyes as to try to catch hers.

"You feel, 'okay', why?"

She turned her head. "Because I am." She looked down. "Fine—I am fine; I am good. I'm well." Her voice croaked and despite putting on a brave front, her lips quivered indistinctly. Mendoza noticed it.

Silence.

"What is one thing you remember fondly? A happy memory or anything that you can remember strongly."

"I have a lot. It would be difficult to choose, wouldn't it?" As she looked at Mendoza with her blue eyes, he knew she was looking for reassurance.

She took a deep breath.

"I was 8 or 9 years old and I was…walking down a creak between the trees just north of here. I remember being excited because my father was arriving tomorrow and so I was happy. But I came to that place anyway. I went there from time to time as it was something I had all to myself. I live in this big manor, but it felt crowded with all the servants and my siblings that I ran away to that place… As I walked further up north I realized that I had gone a bit too far and the Sun was setting. I ran back but ended up tripping and spraining my ankle. I couldn't move; it was getting dark. I felt scarred with all the animals coming out of the darkness, the sounds of the forests at that time were terrifying to someone like me at that age. So, I cried and called for help between my sobs. Just as you know it, a small figure appeared in between the skinny trees. He helped me, brought me home. On our way back, I got to know him. He was sort of quiet and cute. He was the first friend I ever made…. He's a nice man. He visits me often ever since he came back, and I suppose it hurts him seeing me this way."

Tears began to well up.

"He's a nice man really. He's been there for me. He's such a quiet and rowdy person that he's almost a living contradiction. I laugh at the times he and I spent together-"

Her voice bounced between calm, frightened, then to playful and reminiscent; now near the end of her trailing thoughts, she realized something.

"I love the moments I spent with him." She said to herself softly. She gulped.

She looked back up at Mendoza and as if finally, being open and truthful she said, "I don't know how I feel. I'm okay? I'm not okay? I'm hopeful but not." Her voice became frustrated. " I don't know. I don't know what's happening to me. It hurts. It hurts a lot….doctor, I-I…..I'm scared."

She covered her face as her tears began to fall. There was nothing but the sounds of her sobbing echoing off the walls, her wheezing breath, and the sentimental tears pricked much more than the pain of the lead pipe could ever inflict on Mendoza. This was normal for him. While the scenario was the same, it always wounded him deeply. He had seen patients lash out. He had seen patients come to terms with their death and he had seen patients cry. He never felt desensitized to this. He always felt a murderous pain inflicted on his heart; a wrenching, squealing pain that made him want to rip out his heart and end it. He never wanted to stop feeling. He never wants to stop being human. Of course, when things were harder than he anticipated, he always thought about his children and tried to relax.

She sniffled.

"I hope Xavier is fine. I hope he finds someone to love. I hope Elena doesn't get too sad or Vernie…. I-I hope a lot of things." She nods her head slowly as she thinks.

She clapped and as if with a switch her childish whimsicality appeared. In her eyes instead of defeat found confirmation. Mendoza saw this. He pinched his leg.

"I'm getting tired now Mendoza. I'm going to sleep."

"Take all the rest you need."

She laid down on her side and closed her eyes. Mendoza watched the little fairy curl up and fall asleep. The long curly marigold hair rolled across the bed and the light from the setting sun soon almost dissipated and the harsh redness of the room went with it. Mendoza closed the curtains and stepped outside.

He did a double take and stood for a while. He just stood there.

He pressed his body against the door and slid down.

Elena was around the corner. She approached him. She didn't say anything and sat beside him. Mendoza looked up toward the ceiling and stared at the small chandeliers.

"I'll do my best." He promised.

Elena placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Let me show you to your room."

He shook his head. "Can't sleep" his gruffness returned.

"I understand."

Both said nothing and sat outside the fairy's room with a despondent ache attached to their chest. Mendoza, with one hand cusped his ribs, hummed a lullaby that he did for his children. A song that his wife sang.

"She's strong." Mendoza turned to the maid who looked at the wall.

"I know."

"So are you."

She turned to him.

"I wouldn't call myself that."

"Then what would you call yourself? Seems to me you've taken care of her for a long time."

"Dr. Mendoza I'm not your patient."

"But you're the patient's family are you not?"

"How would you know that?"

"I don't. I feel it."

"That's a seemingly absurd thing to say."

Mendoza scratched his nose and laughed. "Yeah, it is." Silence.

"I was hired to take care of her since she was born. It's my job to take care of the Aragon's children."

"It's a difficult job."

"Not really. The cleaning up, cooking, cleaning, it was all easy." She sighed. "You have children of your own?"

He felt for a picture inside his coat. "Two are old enough to go to college, one is raucous, and one is still a doll." He showed an old picture.

"Is that your wife?"

"Yeah, but she is...she's in a better place." He cracked a smile.

Elena fiddled with a ribbon in her hand.

"Doctor, it's getting late. Are you sure you don't want to go to your room?"

He chuckled lightly. "I'll stay here. Goodnight Elena."

"Goodnight doctor." She stood up and left.

Mendoza felt for his necklace and pulled it over his head. He stared at it for a while and then thought. Faith, some people have it.

Mendoza faintly heard the car rumble from outside.

* * *

The driver watched the setting sun and felt bitter and angry. He had been this way for seven years and while the war was done he was not done. His problems were not done. He didn't like to feel sappy or teary or any of that stuff, but he understood that was just something human. It wasn't for him. He had released some sadness when he asked the doctor to help Miss Aragon, a cherished friend, but ultimately, he preferred to not say anything and smoke a cigar instead. Xavier was a man who liked being alone. He was sort of not a lone wolf or an outcast; that would be derogatory to describe him. He was a man who liked being alone with his thoughts and wondering. He never grew up with a proper education, but he did love exploring small ideas. "Lone Wolf" doesn't really suit him other than the case that he likes company, he just prefers being alone. While for "outcast," he grew up poor but on the fringes of society? It's a loose term when applying it to Xavier.

In all his years he grew up, he never really changed. Aralia likes that side of him. She teases him that it "gives him some mysteriousness." He would shrug it off and call her childish ever since back then in the forest when the first met.

Nighttime came, and Xavier waited outside in the car. He didn't want to go inside yet. He looked at the manor and from the left side came another vehicle. It was a heavy-duty truck that was paramilitary. They drove up to his side and, as there were no windows, a man looked at him from above. Some of the interior got wet because of the rain.

"Vernon asked us to check out some dead body. I told him it was unnecessary and let the locals do it, but he insisted on it. You know how he is"

Xavier stared.

"He told us you know where it is."

"Sort of."

"Alright go around and we'll meet you by the gate."

"See you there Pedro."

Xavier started the car.

* * *

Mendoza sat outside staring at his necklace. The night was strangely calm. There were no faint hooting from the owls or rustling from the leaves, even the rain outside phased out into silence. Muffled sounds bounced around in the pipes that layered the inside of the manor; causing some slight creaking from the boards in the wall.

Within a snap, he felt a trembling coming from inside the room. He stood up and bolted through the doors. The young fairy-like creature convulsed; her limbs audibly grinding against each other. She tumbled to the floor and jetted out black blood from her nostrils. The veins enlarged and pulsated visibly with each heartbeat. She screeched. It stunned Mendoza as he looked for his bag and ran to it. He put on gloves and a mask.

She screeched again.

Mendoza knelt beside her with his bag in hand. Her arms unbent. Her fists thrust at his ribcage. He hunched over as he felt his bones shattered and hot blood gurgle in his mouth. She spun around and threw a kick at Mendoza's leg. He slammed all his weight on the ground. Without thinking he let the blood spill out of his mouth. His pupils widened in the darkness. He crawled to his bag and rummaged through it. He got out a small bowl and a few leaves. He mixed them into a paste. He got up and pinned Aralia. He grabbed her jaw and shoved the past down her mouth. He closed it and shushed her while petted her hair. She continued to convulse. The dark goo marked Mendoza's gloves and clothes. She shivered to a soft whimper. Mendoza got off her and collapsed by her side.

He couldn't breathe.

He turned over and reached for his bag. It tipped over and some equipment fell out. He looked through it and found a small inhaler. He pressed it against his nose and pushed a button that released air. His veins turned slightly blue and his pupils covered almost his entire iris.

He could breathe.

He laid on the floor. He relaxed until his breathing calmed down and tried to lift himself up. He couldn't, the pain was too much; just as he almost passed out, he saw Elena with a frantic expression run into the room.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

A few hours had passed and it was at midnight. Xavier and the group called the "qualifiers" were searching for a body that Mendoza had asked Vern to carefully dispose of.

"Where did you say it was?"

"It's around here Pedro. "

Xavier looked around the ground with a flashlight.

"Xavier you aren't even wearing the right equipment!"

Xavier ignored Pedro as he continued looking. "It should be around here somewhere."

"Are you sure you saw it here? I don't see a body in sight."

"I didn't exactly see it. I was by the car."

"What the hell man? Are you joking?"

"What is a joke?"

"You son of—"

"It's not here."

"What are you talking about…"

"Here seems to be the patch of grass where there was a body. The grass is compressed and has some dried-up blood."

Pedro shrugged. "Someone must've picked it up."

"Why would someone pick up a dead body?"

"Don't know, but it's gone so we shouldn't worry about it."

Xavier bent down and flashed a light. "Footprints." He whispered.

"We can't take care of something that isn't here." moaned Pedro.

Xavier ignored him.

"Let's go."

Pedro clicked his tongue. "I forgot we have to report a person's dead body is missing. Don't feel like writing."

"Just make sure to do it."

"Gotcha sarge."

As everyone headed back Xavier continued to look at the footprints. "Left foot is dragging."


	5. The Quest

**CHAPTER 5**

* * *

Whether Mendoza would die, Elena did not know. The truth was—if there is any truth at all—she was afraid. The only thing she could do was clutch Mendoza's necklace as she watched over him. His breathing was a whisper in the wind; his body was crumbling: he had survived, that was a fact, yet she could feel it in her being that he would die. Mendoza would die and this man, who risked his life to save a girl whom he did not know, was the dull, permeating light in the mist. She thought what a trick god had played on her and this man; why must this man's fortune end in tragedy? Why must this man help those who suffer yet ask almost no compensation? She felt the terrible pang of guilt as she turned away from Mendoza and looked out into the twilight—This man will die—The more she said it to herself; the more she thought about it; the surer she was, the more prophetic the vision of the tragedy of Mendoza.

She could not but feel the sadness and guilt for the future of Mendoza: a gentle soul. She held his hand and was sure of the pain he had gone through. What life must he have gone through? She clenched the necklace and found to clean it for this sake. No matter what little help, she would give it. After all, he had helped her save her daughter.

* * *

"[Redacted], look above-fireworks!" –It was beautiful that night—A woman pulled his hand and lead him into the crowd. Her grip was tighter than he remembered, it was as if she was afraid to lose him—it should have been the other way around—The sky was brimmed with a myriad of explosions, a myriad of the intangible awe and the tangible joy. The crowd became thicker and his hand began slipping, her grip was waning—No, NO! Grab her hand damnit! —He had lost her in the river of people and pushed off into a different direction from her. He had never felt more ashamed than this moment—I failed again.

When Mendoza woke up, he was staring at the ceiling. He felt numb throughout the body: paralyzed by the shoulders down. He turned his head to the side and saw Elena sleeping with her head on the bed. Her face was not covered but resting on one side. The lines marking around her eyes showed signs of stress. She had blood rushing to her cheeks giving her a rosy color, highlighting her soft and delicate features. The eyelashes were long and curly, vibrant and lush. There was a sort of stoicism in her face. Unflinching yet soft. Tempered, yet soothed. The sunlight sheened her hair, nourished it, and gave it a vibrancy. Her back arched in against the bed from her chair, emphasizing the creases in her outfit. There were black stains on her sleeves and Mendoza then looked back at the ceiling. If he would have observed a moment longer he would have noticed a necklace tucked between her fist, just loosely spilling out.

Yesterday night's events were hazy, however, the memories slowly began to become clearer. He didn't understand what happened or more precisely, he didn't want to understand. Whether it could be explained or not, in the darkness, that room became small and claustrophobic. The contortions and the convulsions ached his memory in the span that he stood there, the light from the hallway brightening up only a small portion. It was twisted puppetry enacted upon the girl making her dance and move; a body so frail and thin that the faintest touch would cause her to shatter into dust.

Yet somehow, Mendoza felt, instead of feeling disgusted, or fearful, it was relief. Despite his inner rationalization that he is to leave and never come back here, he felt he had a clearer goal. Whether he could achieve it, he didn't know. But that wasn't the point. Money, while being the reason he was here was not the sole reason he would be here anymore.

The nature of the disease is unknown. The whole effects of it, the only thing he can know is what he observes.

Beyond what he knows of the girl there is something evident that needs to be addressed. Did Vern lie to get Mendoza here—to get any doctor who was capable? If this was just a clearly horrible dice roll for Mendoza, then he could let everything go and not worry a thing. But, there was something else that bothered him. Why aren't there any other doctors on staff treating the girl? Why did the family, with all their riches and power, have to travel and look for Mendoza? This could not be simply just a few day's worths of a disease acting upon a person and even if it was, it was evident that those fits where not rare, but frequent.

There is nothing Mendoza can do about his newly drawn conclusion. Besides, his pride wouldn't let him abandon a job. He had hope, a very slim hope.

The precious fairy of the Aragon family was now entrusted upon Mendoza to care for, whether if he would exceed depends on chance—for fate, as he thinks, is not the determiner of his actions.

Elena woke up and found herself staring at Mendoza. She rose up to her chair and said, "How are you feeling?" with the usual stoicism.

"I'm no doctor but I feel okay."

She smiled.

Mendoza felt that his body was not wrapped in bandages but there was gauze taped to his side.

"Who treated me?"

She went to the cupboards behind them and pulled out a few swabs and another gauze. "I did."

Mendoza felt admiration towards the maid.

I'm in good hands he thought to himself.

She stripped off the bloody old gauze and the gently pressed the swab with a disinfectant against his ribs.

Mendoza tried to remember every minute detail in hopes that somehow it may help him; however, it was fruitless as most of the split-second decision were difficult to remember. He did, though, remember the frantic expression on her face when she came running into the room. His previous conclusions now seemed based on muddy waters. If it was frequent why did she need run into the fairy's room? The only logical answer that crossed his mind was that this wasn't a normal episode. He needed to find out.

"Elena," She stopped at the heaviness of his voice and then continued treating his wound, "is it frequent?"

"Yes."

"Was yesterday...different?"

She looked at him.

"Yes."

He stared at the ceiling, taking long but shallow breathes. He had his answer. He instructed her to go into his bag and mix various ingredients together making a different paste than yesterday. She lathered it over his wound and then strapped a gauze to his side.

"Thank you."

She bowed.

There was a quiet knock. Vern entered with a hunched posture and a shy expression. He saw that Mendoza was awake and feared that all his chances to give the poor mistress a gentler time.

"You're awake! Oh, how I couldn't sleep because of it! How are you?"

"I'll be alright."

"Elena, why don't you give us some privacy?"

She stood up and left the room.

"Doctor-"

"Don't." Give me that face he thought to himself. Mendoza understood now why Vern did what he did. He had disgraced his honor to save a frail girl that meant more than he could ever offer in return. He understood very much that sentiment of wanting to save someone you love. He saw her hand in his, but it disappeared. Mendoza knew what it meant to want to save someone desperately and to offer one's place in the heavens for a chance that they could live. He wanted to cry at that very moment. He understood. He…understood. He understood! The pain—the horror—the guilt! He understood all of it and more!

Vern turned dejected for, as he thought, Mendoza was furious. Of course, that would be the case. Vern had invited a noble man such as him and tainted his goodwill with lies and pain.

"I know I have done a terrible thing and deceived you, but we were at a loss. No one would listen to our plea."

Mendoza could say anything for he felt touched by Vern's utter compassion to save the girl.

At his silence, Vern felt compelled to continue.

"The miss is grave, and we need your help. Please." He almost choked.

Mendoza could no longer take Vern's goodwill in shame as he sat laid there. "I already gave you my word to help her."

By those words, Vern affirmed that Mendoza was no ordinary man. There was joy in his heart and for once he felt ashamed for having to resort to such measures: to disrespect himself and Mendoza was a grave mistake of his. Vern understood that if he were honest and upfront with Mendoza when they first met he would have still come to help even when his honor was tainted, even when Vern was cruel.

The tears on his face dripped down as he bowed in veneration of the man's kindness.

"Tell me," Mendoza spoke up, "how long has it been."

"A few weeks. It has been getting progressively worse."

Mendoza was entering a different phase.

"You may leave now."

Vern left.

* * *

Elena was cleaning the blood stains off the doctor's clothes yet no matter how much she tried it wouldn't wash off. She scrubbed away at it viciously and remedially. She stopped and stared outside the window out toward the pasture. She was unsure of the future her chocolate eyes seem to convey. She pressed her hand over her chest and felt for the rhythm of her heart. Slow and strong.

She laid the doctors clothes to the side; signaling to herself that it's impossible. Elena picked up the necklace: it too was bloodied black. She placed it in a pouch and set it aside with the clothes. She walked out of the room and to the infirmary where the doctor was resting. It was time again that she should change his gauze. She looked for some clothes for him meanwhile she figured how to clean his.

When she arrived, she found the doctor tending to his wound, stitching it. Mendoza noticed her walk in and felt his cheeks warm slightly. She bowed as soon as he looked at her. What a strong person she was. She had taken care of this girl for years and to see that girl, even on would consider a daughter, in such a state of pain and anguish, caused Mendoza to admire her ability to keep herself. The one word that was brought into mind was—beautiful.

"Hand me the bowl that you used earlier."

She gave him the bowl and he lathered what left of the paste there was on to his ribs. There were various bruises on him, some she recognized was recently old. Elena worried for the doctor's health. She noticed it in his manners, his words, and his eyes. There was a deeper pain within that man. She could only wonder what caused him to be the way he was now. An empty shell. Mendoza to her was a broken man; devoid of everything, yet the only thing that caused him to move was a kindness in his heart. She could not mistake the feelings of the man in front of her. They were plain to see. He s hurting and yet he still stays to help. Injuries new and old will drive him crazy. He's on the edge she thought. The only thing she can do was to help him in any way she could. So that Aralia could feel better. So that Mendoza could feel better.

"You seem to be doing better."

"I have to."

He stood up and walked over to his bag; rearranging everything to order.

"I suggest you still rest."

She offered clothes.

"It's better if I take another look at her."

He received them kindly.

After Mendoza changed, he grabbed his belongings and opened the door.

"You should come."

She complied, and they headed up to Miss Aragon's room. She was sleeping, but somehow, this time, she seemed as though she might disappear as she never existed. The happy, childish girl of the past was gone and now replaced by the sullen and despondent body that is what the poor girl is.

The fear of her inevitable death was great, but the fear of losing what little humanity, what lingering hope inside her, was far more devasting. To compare the girl in front her to the girl she was, would be to like the warmth of a spring morning, with the birds flying high and the trees holding on to one another, and a snowy land amid a tundra, all signs of habitation hidden beneath the mountain of ice.

The doctor sat beside the young dear and put on gloves. He checked for her vital signs and breathing. Then he took out a notebook and wrote something down. He grabbed a little block and opened it up He placed on top of a counter and pressed a button. A small lab poofed into existence. The doctor got out the bowl and made a different paste then placed it a little bit of it in the cylinder. He then placed a different beaker filled with a clear solution on a burner. He waved his hand at it as if to start it, but nothing happened. Elena thought it was strange that he would do so and even more so that he showed frustration on the inability to do so.

Finally realizing that nothing will happen he turned to Elena.

"Do you have some matches?"

Elena left and came back. She lent them to him.

He started the burner and began heating it up to boiling hot. Then he poured the solution into the paste and let it sit. The doctor placed it back on the burner and poured some salt into it then a drop of alcohol. When he was done, the mixture turned into a light-yellow color. Looked inside his bag for something. He rummaged through them. Irritation crawled under his skin as he couldn't find it.

"Have you seen my coat. There should be two vials."

Elena had taken them out of the coat and put them in her pocket. She showed them to him and he said his thanks. He grabbed an inhaler and a small bottle. He stared at the vial. She had read what it said on it. 5% B.P. She guessed what it meant, but it amounted to nothing. How could she guess? She didn't even understand what he was doing now.

The doctor kept staring at the blue vial with a wistful look. He opened it and poured into the smaller bottle and then put a teaspoon of the yellow liquid.

The harsh red sun encouraged the set of the battle in the room as the light swarmed in.

He put the bottle in the inhaler and turned to Elena.

"Turn her over and grab her hands. Block her feet with your torso." He gave her gloves and a mask.

She scrunched her brows and looked at Miss Aragon. She went over to her and hesitated for a moment. She complied.

"I'm going to spray this up against her nose and if it works, well, make sure you have a good grip."

Mendoza neared the girl and plugged her nose. He tapped the inhaler twice and pinned her shoulder down quickly.

For a moment there was nothing.

Mendoza listened to her breath.

It was quiet.

Her veins pumped open.

Miss Aragon carried a heavy strength as she attempted to shove off two adults. Elena did her best to press her waist against the mistress's thighs, holding her in place. Mendoza plugged her nose again and tapped three times. Her body vibrated, but her strength was waning.

Elena was holding out. The mistress's strength rivaled a soldier. Mendoza, noticing Elena struggling, pressed his hand on top the girl's stomach.

The mistress's body went limp.

"Now for stage 2, are you ready?"

Elena was fatigued, holding the miss down was not a matter of seconds but minutes and that first trial sucked most of her energy away. It was if a rabbit were to try to force a bear to stop moving. She was surprised that Mendoza had the strength in him to hold her down. She would be partially right.

She nodded.

Mendoza shook the inhaler and held down the button. All its content went down her nostrils and a greater strength was produced from her. Mendoza got on top of her and pinned her by the neck.

"Don't quit on me!"

It was ambiguous to whom he was talking to; Elena or Aralia.

Her mouth gaped and croaked. Elena was frightened at the expressions her dear mistress was making, it was horrible. The twitching of the muscles, the blackening of the eye and the reddening of the skin; her pulsating green veins pressed up against the skin as if wanting to burst, pop, explode. The skin was peeling off and a sliminess drenched the bed underneath.

5.

16.

20.

Half an hour had passed. Elena was sick and was it was over dropped to the floor. It was barely the evening.

"You can rest now."

There was a knock on the door.

Elene got up with the little energy she still had.

It was Xavier.

* * *

Xavier felt something was wrong and that it wasn't a "normal" wrong; it was something far more like he was stuck on a web with the spider stalking him, waiting for him to despair. Yet, despite his feeling, he asked himself: why would anyone pick up a dead body? It was a strange thing to do and usually, the person finding the body would make a small burial instead.

He found traces of a distinct sliminess; it was clear yet when flashed a light on it shined a weak purple. Xavier stayed in the car as he ruminated over the mystery of the dead body. He felt mostly shame and defeat that he couldn't bury him or her. He worked as a mere chauffeur; there isn't much he could do unless he obeyed orders: as listening to commands came second above anything.

The nerves dug themselves into every pit of his body, his anxiety was winning over his emotions. He snuffed it out and headed to the manor. He hesitated for the moment. It had been several days since he last went inside. The last time was when he saw Aralia having an episode. It was odd.

He opened the door and the same harsh red light poured through the panel windows. He guessed where he was and went there. As he headed up the main stairs there was a figure on the left. The person covered their face with a mask and wore pinned brimmed hat; a feather was sticking out of it. The boxy coat didn't help to tell whether it was male or female; nor the cape for that matter.

The person carried themselves confidently; their footsteps, however, were hushed.

Xavier called out to her. "Who are you?"

He still couldn't tell whether it was a man or woman, but as she came closer she had an hourglass figure. She cocked her head and didn't answer.

He stepped closer.

"I'll ask again, who are you?" Tension deepened his voice.

"Don't worry about me. You look as if you need to do something. Go on ahead." It was a unique voice that had a pitch he heard never.

She moved to the side.

Xavier stared at her and continued walking.

Xavier stepped inside Aralia's room and saw her sprawled out: she looked undignified. He looked away and up at the doctor. He felt a heat inside his chest and wanted to yell at him what had he been doing, but he controlled himself.

"I have something I need to talk with you for a moment."

Mendoza was surprised.

"Excuse me Elena, and please," he looked at her softly, "rest."

They went outside the room.

"The body's gone."

"What?" Mendoza rose his voice. "How the hell is it gone? It wouldn't make sense for anyone to pick it up. When was this?"

"It was at night. As you said, it doesn't make sense for anyone to be passing by for them to pick it up."

Mendoza furrowed his brows. "Was there anything on the ground? A sliminess or some gloves and a mask…"

"We took care of the area, don't worry about that, but there were footprints. The left foot seemed to be dragging." He moved closer as he lowered his voice.

Mendoza brushed through his hair. This was becoming increasingly strange; that is, with the information give and his examination of the body, weird; he did remember that the body's leg was twisted, but of course, the body was dead. There is no life when the body is practically decaying.

"Thanks for coming."

"Sure thing, but doctor." He hung his head. "how is she—really."

Mendoza sighed and looked at him warmly. "She's a strong person. I guarantee you that. I'm doing my best."

"If you say so." There was delicateness in his tone.

Mendoza patted his shoulder.

"She's resting now, but I'll bet she will be ecstatic to see you."

Xavier shook his head. "No, I rather not." He bowed and left.

Mendoza saw him walk away, his body hunched and his tucked into his body. Nothing like a soldier yet in those eyes he saw when he was talking to the driver he knew he did care for the fairy. Mendoza understood the emotions the driver was going through.

He went back inside.

Xavier kept walking to the garden out in the back. He sat by these overflowing white lilies. It made him feel warm yet nervous. He grew up playing here with the miss, despite him being poor he was hired on as a butler in training. Xavier learned many things at this manor and it pains him to see it empty. The family was gone, here sisters married off to faraway places and her brothers are conglomerates of a thriving business chain—others working in complementary industries. The heir was with his father learning about the titles and negotiating with other lords. The only one who stayed was Elena and Vernon. The family had a tight bond but when they informed the current master, he said not to tell the other family members. He didn't understand why such a b*sterd of a father would do that. So, they don't get overworked did he believe this would end happily so there was no need to call in the family? He knew the master never liked Aralia and didn't know why. But he couldn't really complain about them leaving. He left to the war. Left everyone behind so what right did he have to complain? He felt horrible about his decisions and even more so about the blood that will never wash off his soul. What right did he have to be happy? He was confused. He pulled out a cigar and lighted it. He stared at the sunset. The warm orange calmed him down. Xavier was unaware of many things and aware of many things. He was a man who was in touch with himself and, yet, a man who lost sight of which way was up.

* * *

Mendoza was testing the fairy's blood on a petri dish. This was stage 3. Stage 1 was a strong medicine that forced the body in a short time span to weaken the immune system and allow for faster regeneration of blood. He was on his third sample of blood using a variety of different combination of herbs and medicines he had on hand.

He relaxed and lifted off the goggles he was wearing. He took off his gloves and took some pills that Elena gave him from his lab coat.

"Her blood is something else." The blood resembled a thick black goo. He wondered whether it was even circulating in the girl's system.

He felt this whole thing was ridiculous: nonsensical and insane.

"Mendoza…"

The arctic chill returned. He turned around and saw the dead-faced girl smiling at him. His blood sank to his feet.

He slowly walked over to her.

"I have something on my mind."

He stayed silent.

"Don't have such a face." Mendoza didn't express any emotion, if anything, she projected.

"I have something—what was it again? Oh, that's right; that's right…I feel it right here," she pointed at her skull. "eating me. It's swirling—very hot but its drowsing, lulling. Can you stop it."

Mendoza did not show evidence of his emotions, however, deep inside he felt despair at her description. It caused him to feel chills. It caused him to feel hot at the tips of his fingers. This combination of hot and cold smoldered and froze his body that it was overwhelming. He did his best with the knowledge of man and some knowledge of an age long forgotten. He wanted to help her—free her from this condemnation of suffering.

"Maybe you can't, I suppose it's a lot to ask from a doctor. No one knows." Her voice crinkled at every syllable. "Do you believe in hell?" she started. "In literature I mean. I'm afraid I don't know much else about it. A hot place is it? A cage for the damned, say I'm not damned, aren't I? Doctor? Am I damned?" there was a solemnness in her voice that turned wavering and playful. "Are perhaps you damned?" She stared at him, her icy blue eyes were killing him.

"Forget everything I said doctor, that was awfully rude of me, awfully mean."

Mendoza sat in a chair and observed her: tapping his finger against his thigh periodically.

"That's a bit loud doctor, can you quiet it down?"

He paused mid-way as she rolled over.

The only sounds left were his beating heart and pumping blood. Soon, the fairy fell asleep.

Elena came through the door.

"Doctor, Vernon collapsed."

"He seems to be alright…. It was a heart attack….. He's lucky to be alive."

Elena laid by the old gent's bed: squeezing his hand.

Mendoza knelt by his side and saw faintness in his awakening.

"Oh, hi doctor.." he looked around drowsily. "I guess I may have dozed off.

"Yeah, kind of."

Vern caught the meaning in his words.

"I see." He looked down at Elena. "Child, I'm alright."

"I know you are."

She held his hand as she looked at him with strong, innocent eyes. Her stoicism faded and brought a new persona—a new identity

Vernon looked at her sweetly as he grasped her hand in return. He saw the worry and anxiety on her face and felt the fear entrenched in her voice. Vernon couldn't feel her touch. He couldn't. While his hand gripped hers, it was weak. He could only look at her as a ghost as he pondered whether he was dead, or she was.

"I'll be outside."

Mendoza stepped out and give the two some privacy. This house for them must hold memories far too precious to be forgotten yet as one old man still faintly breathes in one room; in the other, a girl with icy skin dies. This house—while once brimming with joy—turned melancholic.

He looked up and noticed a girl with a pinned hat and boxy coat. He didn't hear her coming at all. Her footsteps were too silent that he felt overwhelmed for a moment that the worst could have happened.

"I'm here to see Vernon."

"I don't," he was taken away by her winter voice," think you should. He's resting right now."

He stared into her eyes that were strong jade color; it ensnared you into a kind of drunken stupor. This was an odd feeling for him. He continued talking.

"You're the one from the workshop."

She stood and turned her head. Her piercing jade eyes tore him in a different way yet the same way as the fairy. She was dangerous.

"I am. Why do you ask, doc?"

She turned around and walked neared his face.

"I don't have a reason." He averted his eyes.

"Don't play your luck right now, doc." She patted his shoulder. "You say that, but you don't really know."

He flicked his brows.

Elena opened the door. "Dr. Mendoza, he fell asleep again." She saw the woman.

"That's fine. Let him get some rest." The lady seemed to say with her nod.

She sat beside the door with her legs crossed and her palms facing forward. The very act brought out a glow about her. It was soft and semipermeable. It was translucent to Mendoza, but the very thing seemed to provide pressure around her; it was the color of autumn. It was very faint to notice the details about it: the texture, the color, the smell; it was as if it was a living, breathing creature that stood beside her and radiated this waving dense air.

Mendoza froze for a moment as he felt the aura of the women. She was dangerous; she was powerful. There's no denying that if she were an enemy she would be able to snap his neck in a fraction of a second any moment she wished. But she was not that kind of person at all. She wasn't like them.

While Mendoza gambled on the nature of the lady I question, she, however, had other things on her mind. She had investigated the grounds for any signs of Nightmare. There was none. She was not as satisfied with this initial search, so she came to ask Vernon to investigate some of the rooms, yet as he is unconscious she decided to rest. She felt odd energy emanating from somewhere in the manor. It was a mixture of disgust, hatred, sadness, and joy. Why joy? Why is there joy in this nightmare? She did not know and that made her worry.

All the people were preoccupied doing what they felt was pertinent. Mendoza was caring for both Aralia and Vernon. Elena assisted Mendoza whenever she was available and tended to her maidly duties. Xavier waited in Vernon's office. And the lady sat there, focused.

Yet no one noticed the swirl of clouds in the sky as it intermingled with the blood-drenched sky. The leaves died; whittling away and then disintegrated. There was no moment of peace. This was not peace. Darkness was in the woods, yet the light was in the lake; Hollowness in the trees, yet fullness in the grass. The bugs buzzed, the birds chirped, the children cried, the men laughed, the owls hooted, the snakes hissed, but the wind died. His face was gone as the breeze that carried the pollen of the flowers were to never fulfill their duty. The softness hands of the wind stopped caressing the world and soon heat followed. Left with the absence of heat the land was beginning to drain.

Mendoza felt the absence.


	6. The Casualty

**CHAPTER 6: The Casualty**

* * *

Charles faced a man who wore large bifocals with thin, discolored rims reminiscent of fall. The right lens was scratched and no matter how often Charles pointed out that fact to Manuel, he wouldn't fix it because it reminded him of his first adventure with Charles.

Manuel had a smile. It was imperfect, yet, even in all its crooked glory, it warmed even the most stoic of hearts. It was the kind of smile which had a nuanced vibrancy that once you found it, it was all anybody could focus on.

"I got drunk on the outskirts of town. I had just come back from being stationed near. . . Black Lagoon up north close to Norten—where the cold frosted the entire camp—I came back into town, right, and you know the statue of Saint Jasmine, I got some paint and colored it red. I went around town marking buildings and shops in an anagram of some word that once you cracked it was straight profanity. Next thing you know the cops catch me and toss me into the slammer. Time in there didn't help, thinkin' didn't help, not after coming back from war. Others just don't get it. How changes it you not for the better, no, for the worse. You see everything wrong with us and it hit me that we were always like this. Morals, they get you nowhere. Ideologies start wars all in the name to say who is correct by victory. You and I, we're just tiny bits—My life! That's right, life, the life that is mine. What's the point? Life is unexpected, and you got to admit that today is as good as any other to die."

Manuel folded his bifocals and placed them on the desk in front of him. He leaned back into his chair and looked about the room processing the information.

"Charley . . . I see it pains you. Doing everything. Doing this errand. It's fine. Everything's fine you can pull it, Charley. Pull the trigger if it'll be easier for you. I'm not mad at you. I can't be mad."

Charles loosened his expression and felt his hand quiver. He thought what an absolute idiot Manny was for asking for money from the White Whistle Gang. There was nothing more absurd, which is not an exaggeration, than to receive what you could not give back, especially from the gang. Yet, he couldn't fault his friend who was in such desperation to provide for his family. This house is worth nothing. Not in its present condition, and the jewelry, the tapestry, the clothes, the lights, the beds, they were gone except the decrepit desk in front of him. One leg stood on a stack of books. God, that was the only thing Manuel would never sell. His books, his dear books, but he's using them now as a leg for a stand and soon enough he would have sold that too. Manuel would have sold his soul.

Charles in anger slammed his fist against the table and scowled at Manuel.

"Don't be angry with me Charley. It's my choice to borrow. I put myself in this situation and you happened to be the guy who punishes me for my mistake."

"You could've asked the doctor to help you."

"I would have put him in a financially insecure position. He needs to feed his kids too, Charley."

"That didn't have to mean you had to borrow Manny! For fuck's sake you signed away your life the moment you lifted that pen. That's bullshit. Your honor, your pride, it's what got you killed."

Manny sighed and pursed his lips.

"I don't regret my choices, Charley. We were born into a precarious era and you could call me a man out of time with my morals, but I'm not going to change. You have. You're living one tragedy after another and it caused a tender soul like yours to be ravaged by the world." He paused for a moment and then jumped to his feet; his eyes squinted, and his voice boomed with power. "I refuse to change! No matter how meaningless I am I refuse. I love this world with its tragedies. I don't see my death as one. Charley, we're not tiny bits, but if it makes it easier for you to pull that trigger then go ahead."

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose and with his violent eyes, jerked his head softly. He was about to give Manuel an earful, but he couldn't. He didn't want to.

Charles cocked the gun and waited for his friend to settle into his chair.

"I love my wife and child. And I love you too Charley."

"Love you too, Manny."

Manuel flashed that crooked smile

The gun holder bit the inside of his cheek.

The gunshot echoed; the first of the evening.

* * *

"Charles!"

Manny's wife ran after him and pressed and item against his chest. He clutched it.

She slapped him and pressed her hands forcing Charles to look her in the eye. She wasn't crying. She held them back because there was something more important she had to say and tearing up would have just gotten in her way.

"Don't need to tell you how I feel." she nodded her head to agree with herself. "You took his life. Robbed him from me and our kid. But you already know that. You know."

Charles listened to every word and felt the admonition like he had an anchor tied to his leg plunging his soul further down the deepest cavern of the seven hells. Vanessa's gaze withered away his strength, but his knees wouldn't buckle, he wouldn't, not yet anyway.

"Manuel would have liked you to have that. Take good care of it." She pursed her lips and sniffled. "God only knows how my heart pangs. I hate you, but we both lost him."

She shook her head and walked away.

Charles watched as her back shrunk into the distance and admired her strength.

He unraveled the yellow linen cloth and choked on his breath.

"Vanessa. . . these, these are his."

He brought it closer and saw a portion of his face: large forehead, busted nose, and weird slanted eyes. His mouth curled maliciously, and his ear was pointed, one was chopped off, though not as large as an elf's.

He wrapped the bifocals and tucked them into his inner breast pocket snugly.

The sky above looked like a smeared charcoal pastel painting, but with a hint of Van Gogh in the way, the clouds vortexed leaving almost a red-eye as that was the place the rays of the hot red sun could penetrate. It reminded him of the frontlines.

The street was long and wide with ashen snow jubilantly swiveled as the wind screeched, dropped to whimper, then nothing. The snow muffled the sounds of laughter of an era gone, while the solitary road reminded him of the people who walked them.

It was like yesteryear on these roads when he and Manny chased each other. Charles saw their younger selves dashing around with wide smiles. He looked around and found the small bakery where they often chatted with the baker's wife about their day and asked her advice about girls. Manny busted through one day on how to get a girl to fall in love with him. The baker's wife looked at him softly and tapped him on his head. She giggled and whispered something in his ear. Charles stuffed his face full of bread as he wondered what was happening. Manny never told Charles what she said but it was simple advice. That's how he was able to share a life with Vanessa.

They cheered. They laughed. They cried. Sometimes, Charley and Manny did all at the same time.

They walked together in the middle of the road and skipped along and without a doubt, their hearts were filled with the tunes of the world.

Charles walked in the middle of the road. He tucked his hand into his pocket and pulled out a cigar and lighter. His hand shook and wiped the tears as they came out.

He walked home. It was a long day. He lit a cigar while his mind wondered and eventually, it landed on Dr. William Mendoza.

Everyone called him the "Saint of Man." He cured your body and soul and restored the humanity, the feeling of being alive, back into you like it was an injection. Will was a doctor. Not a god. And certainly not a hero of yore. Will was just a doctor and that proved he was a man.

He knew Will from when he was a lad. He stood by his lonesome in the courtyard of Holliday's Preparatory School, the best in the region despite it being public. Even then, there was something about his mannerisms, his lackluster smile which gave Charles the impression he was unhappy. He looked somber. There wasn't much about him that gave much to details anyway. All Charles knew for a while was that Will was adopted, kind of, into a rich family who had traveled overseas for a few months only for Will to pop up. He didn't understand Common at the time but Manuel. . . he remarked he was a different. Charles shrugged it off and didn't think about it, but the listlessness in Will's eyes called pity out of him. While everyone found him interesting, Charles wondered how a boy like him walked around with despair all day; Will would break any moment and disintegrate. The doctor was broken just like how Charles is, he admitted that, but it terrified him how long Will held himself together.

Charles took a shortcut via an alleyway to his house. The tall buildings stretched over him and blocked the sunlight from reaching down. What little there was burned from his cigar and as he dove deeper into the maze, with each puff, the light dwindled. There were disgruntled moans off to the right. It was not uncommon for the homeless to sleep out here. The heat dissipated and so did the cigar.

He bumped into a homeless. He took out his lighter—he grabbed him by the leg and yanked it. The man climbed on top of him. Charles punched him, but the attacker choked him.

Charles pulled out his gun and shot him. It boomed across the quiet city—the second of the evening. He pushed him over and gasped for air. It was a strong grip, but it was over.

He put the next cigar to his mouth and felt for his lighter

There it was: the corpse of a dead man.

A musty drizzle of rain washed down on him.

The lighter flickered out.

He looked up and there it was.

Two white, beady eyes,

staring down on him

with the breath of a few month-old carcass

swelling up in his nose.

The dead grabbed him, and the beast attacked.

The third and the fourth reverberated.

* * *

The evening air was as pointless as the fire crackling in front of Susie. She was enveloped in a blanket, pondering in her sister's lap a vague notion of an ephemeral state; she was unable to elucidate the feelings in any coherent sense, after all, she was merely a child; however, she was aware of it, the feeling that is and her innocence. To her, it was like being able to grab a spoon and touch, feel it, bend, but she didn't know what to do with it. She did, but that would not be her point. It was palpable and vivid like everything she can see and extend her arms to; she, at the same time, realized she wouldn't be able to experience the world one day.

Her father wasn't there to be able to read her books anymore.

—Papa left and so did mama—

The world Su knew was the house and one mesmerizing meadow blanketed by bright red and violet flowers. There would be picnics there. The whole family gathered from all over the world. Only the mother's side was there.

Su looked up at her pensive sister. Her dark brown eyes reflected the fiery light off from the dead flame. It was like a stone of amber melting melodically as it swirled and distilled in a brown honey hue. The soft light brushed her skin and imbued it with extraordinary vitality.

The wind slithered between the cracks and stuffed the room. The cupboards grudgingly swung open at the hiss of the wind; the hinges screeched weakly. Outside the home, the trees cried.

Susie stared at the door with a rotten curdle in her stomach. There was only one time she felt the way she did.

Burnt flesh and howls flickered in her mind like a series of moving pictures in film. Hair, flowed down to the woman's knees, jet black, in front of Su. Mother hand precariously by the fireplace with a rope tied around her neck extending up to the ceiling.

—Mama is gone—

With a blink, mother was gone. She had abandoned Su. Her father left too. He was not there anymore.

—He's gone—

Her mother could not handle being with her daughter so how could her father?

How would papa be any different? He must be glad to not see his children anymore, otherwise, he would be here with them. His father loved them, maybe that was true, but it didn't matter. He left.

The fire died, and the warmth rushed out of the house.

* * *

Each breath rushed in and out of Charles with a sting to his lungs. He felt cold and dizzy. He looked down and the blood drenched his shirt and dripped to the ground. Each droplet of blood had a muffled pop sound. It was rhythmic. It was robotic. It was monotonous. He trudged and left behind a trail.

He fell to the ground and coughed so much his lungs were about to burst from his ribcage.

He picked himself up and kept walking.

His vision was getting blurry and his steps were sidewinding like a drunken old fool.

He reached Will's home

He got to the door and pounded it. With each contact, a softer thud was inserted.

His blood began pouring out like a waterfall.

Charles placed his back against the door and slid down.

He remembered a time when he felt like this. The dark sun was overhead. He could see it in the trenches, about five stories deep. It was a miracle. The sun was overhead. He dragged him and his buddy closer to the surface. The enemy infiltrated behind them and disguised themselves. He was safe nowhere. As Charles carried his bleeding buddy, the sun would flash between the planks above.

Charles had gone to war, came back, and, still, he killed. Nothing had changed for him. He had not changed. Charles was just like any other bastard. He should have died that day, but he refused, and he still refused to die.

But, he was beginning to wonder whether dying would be nice.

He blacked out.

* * *

Charles's body was pressed against the door. His blood dripped and popped with a steady frequency. The blood slathered against the door was a piercing ruby red. His head dropped, and his palms faced upward as his right leg was extended while the other tucked in to support his body from slumping over.

On the other side of the door, the children stood with an adrenaline-filled fright. 'Who could it be?' crossed their minds as they huddled together. Su was smothered and relished the tightness, the warmth, of her sister's embrace. She looked up at her siblings and thought about how silly they all looked. Why wouldn't they open the door? She wanted to yank open the door and bear witness to what was on the other side.

Su, with her big bright eyes, craned her neck to see beyond Donovan's back. Her eldest brother opened the door with a toy pointing down. A man collapsed to the door and a pool of red liquid flooded the entrance and washed down the boards and crevices.

He was big and boxy. She widened her eyes and smiled as she looked at the man's proportionally larger than life feeling. He was like a giant bear with large scars on his hands that traveled up his shirt.

Donovan pointed the toy at the dead man.

"Donny don't kill him!"

Susie looked up at her sister.

Donovan turned slowly as he kept the toy trained on the man.

"You know who this man is—you know what he is like!"

Karen looked him in the eye. "He's bleeding."

He looked at the man with a vicious gaze as if he would be willing to tear the man into pieces and torch his every bone and muscle down to soot and ash. Susie grew appalled.

"Help him."

Everyone turned to their little sister with a surprised face. Even Susie was surprised at herself. She didn't understand why she wanted to give the man a helping hand, but she knew she had to. She didn't understand. She couldn't. She frowned at seeing the man once more and felt appalled.

"Help him!"

Donovan trembled at her baby sister's words and grew frustrated.

"No."

"Come on Donny, he's dying!"

"I saw him—with dad—outside. I saw them. You saw them. Don't bullshit me now." His voice quivered.

"Help him!" Susie said.

"Big bro just help him. Do what dad would do—"

"You're really going to go down the road? I know what this guy does for a living. It's not just about dad-It's more-It's much more! Erick. . . none of you understand."

He looked at Karen.

"Don't. . . don't do that to us. We are not stupid! We know what he does. But we can't do this. We can't kill him."

" _We_? I'm the with the gun so how is it 'we'? Tell me! Come on—tell me!" he growled

"Because if I let you kill him then I'm responsible as well!" She paused. "I'm not going to let you kill this man, Donny."

"What right does he have to live?"

Karen looked softly at the dying man.

"Every right as we do. It's not the same."

There was aggravation on Donovan's face. They stared at each for centuries, yet Donovan had to make a choice. Let the man die, kill him, or help him.

"Are there any tools left?"

"I know where he keeps his spare," Erick said. "I'll go get them."

Erick stood up and left the room with his shoulders hunched and his hands clenched into a ball.

Su looked at the dying man and felt relief that he was going to live. He must live. He must be saved: no matter the cost.

* * *

When Charles came to he saw a little girl staring at him with wide-open eyes which pulled him into an ocean filled with comfort and sweetness.

"How do you feel?" It was a young boy's voice. It wasn't particularly deep, but it was high enough just not to be mistaken for a girl. The boy looked at him with empathetic eyes. "I think you already know this. You would've died. You're lucky enough to be awake since you lost a lot of blood and all.

Charles nodded but he scrambled to look for his jacket and ended up falling down the table.

Erick reached out to grab him. "Watch out! You lost a lot of blood, remember? You can't walk yet. Lay down and relax."

He stood up and wobbled as his knees almost buckled.

He looked up at the boy, "bifocals, where is it?"

Erick settled him down back onto the table and pulled out a pair of spectacles.

"I only washed them. If you want me to fix the scratch I could."

"No," his voice yelped. "no that's fine."

He examined them, and his brows scrunched pitifully. "They're alright." He murmured.

"Tell, Will, tell your father thanks."

"He's not here," It was an older boy. His voice was heavier, more monotonous in presentation. It lacked kindness. "Thank him." He jerked his head toward Erick.

—That's Donovan, then this is Erick—

There was vivid bewilderment expressed in Charles's lineaments.

—Am I doin' this smiling thing right?—

Erick nodded.

* * *

Susie stared at the man who now sat in a chair.

She waddled to him and pressed her hands down on his knees and looked up at him with her bug eyes.

"My name is Susie!" She puffed out her chest. The man tilted his head and brushed the side of her hair over her ear.

"What, what is your name!"

He smiled and gave a sort of chuckle.

"Charles."

"I'm going to call you Charlie." She resounded. "Su! You can call me that."

She looked up at the man and with vibrant energy climbed up and squished his face together.

Karen ran and plucked her off from his face and blushed from the embarrassment.

Charles busted out into a burst of heavy, boisterous laughter that punched through the dreariness in the stuffy air.

* * *

Donovan did not like the man Charles.

He was a wretched gangster who had ordered the beating of his father. He would never forgive that. The image of his dad laying on the ground taking beating after beating infuriated him.

He wanted nothing more than to kill him, but he decided against it. Donovan was disappointed in himself for having violent thoughts. And they persisted ever since he was just a young lad. The moment he could remember was the moment he gripped a child's hair and smacked his face.

Donovan's anger was eruptive like a volcano on a tectonic plate with frequent movement. It was all about when the next explosion was going to happen.

His father told him to watch his temper in a manner only he could manage: "You have those bull goggles on again. Don't you get bored only looking at the world through them? There's more to the world than just bloody red. Try using a different tint-better yet use all of them the world's beautiful."

Of course, Donovan replied that bulls are color blind. His dad responded with "They may see gray but they're angry at everything. Are you going to be like that?"

Donovan dropped his head to the ground, as all he could see was scorching red.

Everything he did was never good enough for himself and he would never be anything like his father.

He hated himself, but he hated Charles even more.

He gave Charles a fierce look and hunched over as he took out a photo from his breast pocket. It was a picture of his family just when Susie was born.

He felt someone tap his shoulder.

"How do you feel big bro?"

He slid the photo back into his pocket. "You know how it is."

Erick pursed his lips and nodded.

"What is it?"

"I came to check up on you. That's all."

Erick was never the type of person to confront someone; however, he was not meek or shy. He spoke at a deliberate pace and had an unfounded eloquence to his tongue. Unlike him, Erick was softer and kinder.

"Thanks, but I'm okay. Seriously, don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"See! Like that. You have those puppy dog eyes."

"No, I don't. I'm looking at you normally. You're the one who's being weird."

"And you're the one worried about me. You can't hide how you feel!"

"At least I'm not 'look at me. I'm Mr. Edgy with a stern face.' You just don't like your smile."

"I have nothing—I don't have to explain myself."

"Mr. professional is going to revert to his old self?"

There's one thing Donovan forgot to add to his list of descriptions: Erick can be an ass.

He pouted, and Erick walked off with his chest puffed out—all triumphant. With Erick's back turned away against him, Donovan smiled.

But that smile turned into a frown as he felt his wrath foaming at the back of his thoughts as he looked at Charles.

He was a disgrace. There was nothing he could do about the anger. He tried. He looked at his hands and wondered why his father loved him so much. If his father knew what his mind went through, he would try to fix him like he fixes all his patients. He loved his father, but he didn't want to be fixed. Not by him.

He walked towards Charles and said—

* * *

"I hate you."

Those were sudden words that Charles did not expect to hear so bluntly. It is not to say that he didn't understand why the kid would find him repulsive but rather, the forwardness of his which took him aback.

"Well, I thought you loved me. Those eyes tell everything about you."

Donovan frowned and looked at the crackling fire.

"I would've been more surprised if you didn't feel anything about me, kid. I'm going to be honest. It's a miracle I got on those front steps. And, it's a miracle I'm still standing."

Charles scratched his head and sniffled.

"I'm going to leave now."

Charles leaned off the wall and gathered his things. He was the first person to recognize that he does not deserve to be alive. So why did they help him? The question nagged him, but he did not ask. He didn't want to know.

He shook his head and looked over to Donovan. Charles smirked and went for the door.

Bones clattered outside. Tongues clicked.


End file.
